Part 18 (1/2)
”Could be,” Court said, ”we have enough internal fuel to keep up with the F-100s even if they do have drops. I'll let you know when we come back. We may demount the centerline tank and hang some more bombs.”
He walked to the ladders for the front and rear c.o.c.kpits.
The maintenance lieutenant handed him the AF Form One booklet, the maintenance record of the airplane. There were no major discrepancies, and he signed for the aircraft. Then he led Connert around to preflight the aircraft, checking its general condition, the hanging and fusing of the weapons, the tires, hydraulic leaks. A big auxiliary power unit stood by to supply electrical power and air under pressure to start the engines. The lieutenant crew chief took their helmets and kneeboards to the c.o.c.kpit and returned with the parachute harness.
Connert spoke up as they were strapping their harnesses on. ”I think you'll see that I'm a good pilot.” He gave Court a brilliant smile and slapped him on the shoulder.
Court looked at him through narrowed eyes. ”Listen, Connert, I'll tell you how great you are after I see you fly.
How much time you got in this airplane?”
”Ah, almost one hundred hours. I was in the F-4 course at George Air Force Base.”
”GIB or ACT' Guy In Back or Aircraft Commander?
”Aircraft Commander of course.”
Court nodded. ”Okay, now pay attention to what I'm saying. If we take a hit and have to get out, I'll try to give you a warning. If the intercom is out, I'll punch the EJECT light on. Don't ask questions, just go. If we do lose comm, but there is no reason to eject, just tap the stick lightly if there is some direction you want me to look, or even dip the wing toward an immediate threat. Only in case of absolute emergency do you take the controls. Before we taxi, do your normal backseat checks, get the INS aligned, and read off the checklist to me.
I'll also expect you to read me the checklist before takeoff and before landing. Any questions?”
”When do I get to fly?” Connert had a bright quizzical look on his face.
”I am a pilot, you know.”
”You prove to me you can handle the duties of a backseater first, then we'll talk about when you fly.” Connert's cheeky att.i.tude was beginning to wear on Court's nerves, ”Let's get going.”
The two men mounted the ladders and settled into their c.o.c.kpits. ACs and GIBs in F-4s were attached to their Phantom by four belts, two garters, a high-pressure air hose to inflate their G-suits, an oxygen hose for their mask, and a thick wire connector for the microphone built into the oxygen mask and the headsets built Into the helmet. The crew chief hopped back and forth between each c.o.c.kpit, helping the men find and adjust their straps and hoses. Court picked up his helmet from the front canopy bow and put it on.
”How do you read?” he asked Connert when he had signaled for power and placed the master electrical switches on.
”Loud and clear. Do you want me to start the INS alignment?”
”Of course.” Court was surprised. It was automatic for a backseater to start aligning the heading of the Inertial Navigation System from the rear c.o.c.kpit. In fact it couldn't be done from the front seat on this model F-4.
While preflighting, the crew chief wore a headset and large microphone mask to communicate with the pilot. He plugged into the intercom system and asked Court how he read him.
”Loud and clear, chief.” Court started the engines, then began the litany of the fifteen Before-Taxi checks he had to make. When he was ready to taxi, he performed his c.o.c.kpit check and noticed neither the radar nor the INS was operating.
”Hey, d.i.c.k, you having trouble getting the radar and INS on line?”
”Yeah. They don't seem to respond.”
”Chief,” Court said, ”put your ladder back and see if you can find the problem.”
The crew chief ran up the ladder and bent into the c.o.c.kpit.
In seconds Court's radar screen and INS readouts came on.
”She's okay now, sir,” the chief said over the intercom.
”Just a little switch problem was all.” Even though the roar of the engines reverberated in the revetment, Court could tell the chief was working hard at making his voice remain neutral.
”Thanks, chief. Ladders away and we'll be off.”
He checked in with Silver flight.
”Roger, Three Three,” Morelli said. ”We were wondering when you'd be up.” Court was chagrined to see the two F-100s already out of their revetments and waiting for him by the taxiway like two giant birds of prey with spread wings. He added power, returned the lieutenant's departing salute, and taxied out of the revetment. He followed the two F-100s to the armament area by the edge of the runway. All three pilots placed their hands and arms on their canopy bows to show the armament crews they weren't touching any switches. The lead armorer came to Court's F-4, looked up at him, and shook his head no, and pointed to the backseat.
Court understood.
”You got your hands out of the c.o.c.kpit, Connert?”
”Oh yeah, right away,” Cormert said in a startled voice.
The armament man nodded and waved his crew under the wings to check the pylons, to insert the bomb-rack ejection cartridges, and to make the final electrical continuity check, and finally to pull the pins that secured the bombs to the racks and the racks to the pylons. He held the pins aloft and waved Court on his way.
When the three fighters were cleared on the runway, Morelli lined up on the left side the downwind side-of the runway. Jensen lined up in echelon formation on his right wing, Court lined up in echelon to Jensen. That way any crosswind would blow the jet exhaust of the lead plane away from the one behind it. Morelli gave the windup signal by twirling his forefinger next to the canopy on Jensen's side.
Jensen repeated the signal to Court. The two F-100s ran their engines up to 100 percent, performed their checks, then throttled back. Court could not run his engines up to full military power (as 100 percent RPM without afterburner is called) because the tremendous thrust would skid the F-4 along on its locked brakes. When he finished his checks, he signaled he was ready. Morelli released his brakes, kicked in his afterburner, and was off, followed by Jensen fifteen seconds later.
Court saw the slow acceleration of the F-100s and realized he would have to delay thirty seconds or run over Jensen. Without the full bombload on his FA it was lighter and more responsive to the thrust of the engines.
”All set back there?” he asked Connert.
”Yes, sir. Let's get this show on the road.”
Court released the brakes, ran the throttles all the way up, then outboard to the afterburner position. In seconds the airplane was at nose-wheel rotation speed, then they were off the ground at 175 knots (200mph) barely 3,500 feet down the 10,000-foot runway. Court saw Silver Lead come out of afterburner and turn right so he and Jensen could cut him off and join up in formation. Court kept his burners in until 420 indicated to use the extra speed to catch up faster, then throttle back and slide into position. A fighter pilot always wants to make the cutoff turn and be in formation on his leader's wing faster than anybody else has ever done. It's an automatic reflex. He doesn't even think about it.
”HEY,” Connert shouted from the backseat. ”We're too fast. We're gonna hit him.” Court felt the throttles pulled back. When he shoved them back into position, he felt the pressure of Connert's hand.
”You're crazy,” Court yelled. ”Get your G.o.dd.a.m.n hands off the throttle.
Put 'em in your lap and don't touch anything. I'm flying this airplane.”
”Well, all right, Major. If that's the way you want it. I was just trying to be helpful.”
Court had rammed the throttles up and now was slowly dragging them back as he slid into position on Morelli's right wing. Jensen had taken the left. The three airplanes entered the overcast in a tight Vee formation.
Morelli was smooth and the clouds were not turbulent.
The climb-out was smooth as Court gently fingered the controls to hold position. He thought about Connert. ”Who'd you fly with at George?” he asked.
”One of the squadrons,” Connert answered in a low voice.
”Which one?”
”What is this? The Inquisition? What difference does it make what squadron I flew with? Don't you think I can fly?”
Something wrong with this guy, Court thought. ”Take it easy, d.i.c.k.